


Wanderlust

by thetreesgrowodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, M/M, not the Holmes parents as seen in S3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had spent his life thinking ahead to his Wanderlust, what the day would be like when he finally got to go find his Cabin... the Cabin that one other person in the world would be compelled to find and enter as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"John."

"Sherlock."

They stared at each other across the threshold of the Cabin's front door. John, with his hand still on the doorknob, was frozen in the act of answering the door. Snow blew inside and began to melt.

"You..." the wheels were turning in John's head, "you followed me here?"

"No."

"Tracked me here then, because —"

"No. That's impossible." Sherlock shook his head.

"You must need something. Maybe you got lost or —"

"You know that's impossible, John, to find a Cabin that isn't yours."

"But you... you. You do impossible things all the time —"

"No. Improbable, perhaps. Not... impossible."

John had spent his life thinking ahead to his Wanderlust, what the day would be like when he finally got to go find his Cabin... the Cabin that one other person in the world would be compelled to find and enter as well. His buddies had scoffed at the sappy movies and book about it, at the girls and their slumber-party-fortune-telling ways of predicting who and when it would be.

John had let the scenario play out in his mind many different ways. With a gorgeous woman, mostly, but sometimes it was a good-looking bloke. Would John arrive first, or would the other person be waiting for him? What if — as sometimes happened — they didn't speak the same language? Well, John could think of plenty of things to do that wouldn't involve speaking, and he could certainly learn a new language afterwards. He hoped the other person wouldn't insist on him moving — he loved London, he loved Baker Street. Surely, they'd work out a compromise.

Compatibility of the heart was assured, but not of the personality or lifestyle. John had always told himself that, whatever the difficulty, they'd work things out. As much as he liked to fantasize about the other person being gorgeous, he could adapt, he could be happy with anyone regardless of their looks or quirks. That was just who John was.

But Sherlock — Sherlock was standing on the step. John thought he had imagined every single scenario. Obviously, he hadn't.

Sherlock — bluish in the lips and shivering, with snow in the hair curling out from under his knit cap.

"Oh God, get inside." John grabbed Sherlock's arm and hauled him in, shutting the door behind him.

The cabin was small, one room and no running water, shower or toilet. There was a sink which pulled up well water from a pump, a gas stove, a fireplace, a bed, a few chairs.

"Your clothes are wet." John took Sherlock's hiking pack off, as Sherlock was just standing there, useless, staring at him. He'd think more clearly once he was warm. "Do you have dry clothes in here, or... I have a change of clothes... they wouldn't fit well, but you're welcome to them. Sorry the fire isn't very warm yet. I only got here a little while ago myself. I've barely even had time to look around. Here." John pushed Sherlock toward the fire.

"Warm up and I'll get something hot to drink." John went into the little kitchen. There were cups and a kettle and the gas stove and tea bags. They could be civilized here, after all.

John busied himself making tea and kept his back to Sherlock to give him privacy while he changed into dry clothes. Something he wouldn't have worried about before.

It wasn't unheard of for it to be someone you already knew. It just wasn't very likely. But, there was a slight increase in the likelihood of it being someone you knew compared to it being a stranger. People who had studied it over the years had come to the belief that the process wasn't just entirely random, but they still debated if meeting someone then caused them to be one's Other, or if one's Other was random. Was it something set at birth, or something that grew?

And Sherlock — Sherlock was really here.

But if his Other was indeed Sherlock, the thought that they loved each other and were meant to be was momentarily thrilling, even as it was surprising.

But he did, involuntarily, glance at the door, something he'd done nearly nonstop since he'd first arrived here to find the Cabin empty.

"No one else is coming," Sherlock said, making John jump.

John turned away from the door, feeling guilty. "I know. I wasn't — I didn't mean —"

"You still hope that your true Other is coming and that I am some kind of fluke. Well it won't happen. No one has ever found their way to a Cabin that wasn't their own —"

"I know."

"No one has ever even been able to _see_ a Cabin that wasn't their own, so —"

"Alright, alright, Sherlock, I know. I'm just... surprised."

Sherlock met his eyes and his gaze was intense. They both looked away. Sherlock's tone of voice softened. "I got my Wanderlust a few hours after you left. I thought it was odd that it would happen to both of us on the same day. I considered this possibility briefly." Sherlock looked up from the fire. His eyes made it as far as John's collar before he looked away. "But it was so improbable. It is... unexpected."

"Yeah it is. And I really wasn't hoping that someone else is coming. I'm just — I haven't really had time to think this through yet. It's... I don't want this to be a mistake, Sherlock." John smiled. It was slightly forced, but from confusion, not because he was lying.

"So am I. It's comforting to see a familiar face."

When the tea was ready, John took a cup to Sherlock and sat on a chair by the fire with his own.

"I suppose we're going to have to figure this out." John said.

"What is there to figure out, John? The truth is obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock met his eyes and stared a little longer than was comfortable. "Unless you mean 'figure out where we go from here', to which I say we're obviously incompatible and I won't take offense if you continue dating."

"Why would I?"

Dating was mostly just for fun and for sex, kept casual as most people settled down in long-term relationships with their Others. But there were always those whose Others had died or who had somehow been unwilling to go through a major life change such as moving or learning a new language to be with their Other so sometimes dating lead to long-term relationships as well, or to provide a sexual relationship when the Others weren't able to — oh.

"How are we incompatible?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't like sex, John."

"Oh." John stared at the floorboards. They made a funny pattern, the way they met up. "I wasn't thinking about —"

Sherlock sighed. "When your Wanderlust started, back in Baker Street, you trimmed your pubic hair and packed all of your condoms and lube. Of course you were planning on having sex, and a lot of it, while you were here." Sherlock glared at the fire. "That's what most people do in their Cabins, anyway."

John felt his face get hot. "That... that rather went out the window when you arrived. Not that — not that — I don't mean —"

"I'm not what you wanted."

"You're not what I expected."

"Well." Sherlock turned back to the fire as if the conversation was finished. "It's not fair for you to be shackled to someone who can't be what you need in a relationship, which is why I'm giving you freedom to date or even marry. You can still have the life you wanted."

It was true. John had always thought he'd settle down with his Other and have or adopt children. That it would change his life. In some ways, he'd been holding his breath his whole life for this, not putting down roots anywhere, because he thought his life would change nearly overnight.

Things didn't always work out.

That's when he realized that maybe Sherlock had plans for his Other as well. Maybe Sherlock's had been derailed.

"It's true. I had certain expectations about what would happen here. But what about you? You must have thought about it. What did you want? Who did you expect to find?"

Sherlock didn't move and for a moment John wondered if he wouldn't answer. It was a personal question, but not an inappropriate one.

"When I was very small," Sherlock began, "I was fed the standard scenario given to little boy when their told about Wanderlust; a woman, attractive, kind, comforting, one I'd marry and have children with. I rejected it almost immediately, of course."

"Of course," John echoed, with a small smile.

"Too boring, too... blandly _nice_. And I couldn't imagine, even then, that this woman would understand me."

"So what did you want instead?" John asked.

But Sherlock never answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback and encouragement when I was unsure where to go with this story.


	2. Chapter 2

"John, I'm not going."

John looked up, surprised. They'd spent the last fifteen minutes getting ready to leave the Cabin and return to London. John's backpack was packed and waiting by the door with his anorak. Sherlock, sitting on the bed, had just finished packing his own bag. John was in the middle of lacing up his boots. They were less than a minute away from leaving — or so John had thought. "What?"

Without turning to look at John, Sherlock muttered, as if to himself, "I've done this all wrong, made a right mess of this whole thing. Ruined. Wasted. But it might still be salvageable."

True, John thought, things could have gone better. Much better. 

After their awkward arrival at the Cabin and fruitless attempt at discussing the situation, Sherlock had flopped on the bed in a petulant silence. John had tidied up a little and then resigned himself to sleeping on the floor, as the thought of sharing the bed, even just for sleeping, was currently out of the question. Between getting up to stoke the fire several times, and turning over the situation in his mind, John hadn't slept much, and when he had it had only been a light doze. Mostly he'd lain awake listening to Sherlock's silence (it was a thorny, bulky, third entity in the room with them) that never transitioned into the steady, deep breathing of sleep.

They'd got up before it was properly light out. Without even a 'good morning,' John had suggested going home, and Sherlock had agreed immediately. John thought — or hoped — that back in London they would be able to come to terms gradually with what being Cabinmates meant for them. That was more realistic, more practical, than expecting their relationship to morph into _something else_ overnight here in the Cabin.

Still, he had to admit that he would feel better if they came to a more solid understanding about their relationship _here and now_ , in their Cabin. Leaving felt a bit like defeat.

"Alright," John said, "we'll stay and fix things. We'll work it out." Of course he was willing to do that, if Sherlock was. This was their Wanderlust. It only came once in a lifetime. And this was Sherlock, his best friend. This was _important_. "We can stay as long as you —"

"No, John. Let me clarify. I meant that _I'm_ going to stay. You can go home," Sherlock said. He unzipped his bag and started unpacking it.

"And leave you here, alone in the Cabin?" John asked, feeling numb. "That's like something from a cheesy drama, Sherlock. Nobody really does that kind of thing."

"Regardless, that is what I intend to do. I have work to do. It will be tedious and I don't require an assistant."

John took several deep breaths and nixed the first few retorts that came to mind. It was one of the many strategies he'd developed in trying to communicate with this frustrating man. "Sherlock. I don't understand. What work? Talk to me."

Sherlock stalked restlessly around the room. "I have always intended to study the Cabin and the Wanderlust process scientifically. It's ridiculous that in this day and age it is still regarded as some unexplainable, mystical miracle. I neglected to record any data yesterday — an appalling failure on my fault. So I will stay and do what I can." He picked up John's anorak and held it open for John to put on.

John glared at him and stayed where he was.

Sherlock sighed. "Don't be difficult. I'll be home in a few days. I can't stay here forever, after all."

" _This_ is what you want to stay here for? Alone. Studying the Cabin? _This_ is what you've made a mess of and want to fix?" John asked.

"Yes. I've looked forward to this since I was a child, and will have limited time, and will require silence so I can concentrate. I didn't get any work done yesterday, the must crucial day, and I'll need to work even harder now — I've thought about how to make up for it all night." He gestured with John's anorak.

"You said we were going back today. You packed. Just now." John clenched his fists.

"Yes, a deception on my part. I did it so that _you_ would pack as well, so you would be ready to go and I could get you out the door more quickly and hopefully cut this inevitable conversation short. I really have lost valuable time."

"Oh, well, why not just chuck me out in the cold last night?" John stood up, grabbed the coat from Sherlock's hand, and threw it across the room, saying, "Get that out of my face, Sherlock. I'm not leaving."

Sherlock looked at the anorak on the floor for a moment, then squared his shoulders with a noisy exhale. "Very well. I won't force you to leave. Now, excuse me while I get to work." He went back to the bed and pulled more things out of his pack.

John made himself sit again, and after a moment of trying to calm down, John said, "I'm trying hard not to be insulted here, Sherlock."

"Why? This is my failure. It wasn't your fault," Sherlock said dismissively. "No — I didn't think clearly when my Wanderlust began. I felt the urge to get ready — quickly — and start walking. I wanted nothing more than to just get here and find... find my Cabin. I forgot everything else. I didn't think the impulse would be so strong or that I would be rendered so incapable of rational thought by it."

John remembered his own experience. He hadn't felt incapable of thought, exactly. It had been more that his mind had been full of rich imagery and sensation and emotion, none of which translated into anything logical. He had been overflowing, like a cup under a fully open tap, the emotions flowing and churning and spilling over because he couldn't hold them, let alone understand them. His face had felt hot, his eyes heavy, his feet light — and there had been an irresistible pull, a direction he had to walk.

Sherlock spent a long time unfolding and smoothing out a shirt, focusing on it and not John. "When I was a child," he said slowly, "I was ill. Must have been feverish. Everyone woke up in the morning and I was gone — scared them all to death. Mycroft finally found me wandering around outdoors in my pajamas, several miles away. Later I was able to recall getting out of bed and going outside and walking, but I couldn't explain _why_ I had done it. There was no rational thought behind it, not even the skewed logic of a dream. While I was doing it, I never felt that I had lost control of my actions exactly, and yet I didn't have complete autonomy. I simply went. I couldn't make sense of it. I hated that. Coming here was like that."

"Yeah, it was like that for me, too," John said. Only he hadn't hated it — he'd been thrilled at the thought that somewhere in the world was someone else who was going to make this same trip, and walk toward the same Cabin. His Other. That person had been impossibly dear to him — he'd known that with a certainty, even before knowing that person's identity.

"Everyone had told me it would be like that, but I still thought... no, surely _I_ can remain aware. Surely I, with no lofty expectations or romantic dreams to muddle up my mind, can. And I was wrong." Sherlock looked at John, frustrated. "My only expectation of my Wanderlust had been to observe the process and understand it, and I failed at that."

"I _get_ the idea of wanting to understand it," John said, trying to put himself into Sherlock's mindset. "But maybe this just isn't meant to be understood, though. It's _Wanderlust_ , Sherlock. It's just something you accept for what it is. You have to submit to it. You make the most of what it gives you."

"Bah." Sherlock waved his hand, as if chasing off the thought. "We should build the fire up again. It's getting cold. Put on some tea, would you?"

Sherlock knelt in front of the hearth, shifting the logs with the poker and adding firewood. John stayed where he was — _tea be damned_ — and stared at Sherlock's back. His heart was beating fast from their heated discussion and from his frustration with Sherlock. But it hurt too, and felt like it was straining forward, against the front of his rib cage. The ache in his shoulders and chest wasn't entirely from sleeping on a hard floor. Finally he got up and went to stand beside Sherlock.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" Sherlock, still busy with the fire, glanced only briefly at John.

John got on his knees on the hearth and put his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. Sometimes the best way to get Sherlock to hear him, was to be softer, not louder. To respond to his overt rudeness with gentle actions. Sherlock's body was tense, and his chest was rising and falling quickly, but he didn't move away. "What is really going on?" John asked. He rested his forehead on Sherlock's temple and sighed. "There's something else behind this. There's more to this."

Sherlock didn't reply, but put down the poker and settled into a more comfortable sitting position without dislodging John's arms.

John continued, "You're trying desperately to make this about anything other than what it's about. Which is me. You and me."

"I... I didn't expect it to be you. But I had already planned on studying it," Sherlock said, watching the fire.

John relaxed his hold and settled next to Sherlock, one arm still around his back. "Why?"

"Because people have such ridiculous beliefs about it. They romanticize it. They heap meaning and importance onto it. And even after they've been through their own Wanderlusts, and are generally disappointed by them, even if they won't admit it, they obsess over stories and gossip of their friends' Wanderlusts. Pick them apart. _Why did their Wanderlust pair those two up? What did she do to deserve the Other she got? How can those two possibly make it work?_ Or — _Why hasn't he had his Wanderlust yet? His Other will have to be a saint, with his personality._ They turn their scrutiny on their children, put the pressure on, _make sure you marry your Other — don't embarrass the family. Be good and you'll have a good Wanderlust._ "

"Did your parents —"

"I don't mean anyone said those things to me," Sherlock said, quickly. "I just — since I was old enough to realize that Wanderlust process is little different from _salmon swimming upstream to spawn_ — all instinct and no rational thought — I've despised the ridiculous, romantic drivel, the fixation on it. It's all bollocks and nonsense. It demands to be demystified, and to do so, it needs a scientific explanation."

John gritted his teeth. He disliked how sappy and critical people could get about Wanderlust at times too, but how could Sherlock _still_ think there was no deeper significance to Wanderlust, even after they'd found each other here? Sure, John was still struggling to get his head around Sherlock being his Other, but on another level, it had validated the connection he'd felt with this man since the day they'd met. Opening the Cabin door to see Sherlock had been one of the most meaningful moments in John's life.

"So you want... to explain Wanderlust scientifically," John began, slowly, "and then you can — what? Publish it on your website or something, explain to everyone that they're basically just salmon, acting on instinct with their fish brains, so that people will think about it differently? Not... place so much importance on it? Not romanticize it?"

"Exactly." Sherlock pulled away from John, decisively but not roughly, and moved to sit on the sofa facing the fire. "That was all I ever hoped for from my Wanderlust. Unraveling it."

John wasn't sure if he should join Sherlock on the sofa or not. "No part of you ever wanted something else out of this? Even when you were young, even when you were — well, presumably at some point you were less jaded — and dreamed about it? Didn't you ever have a — a best-case scenario? No matter how unlikely?"

Sherlock turned his face away and pressed his fist to his mouth. "Perhaps when I was quite small. But as a child, I quickly realized just how unpleasant other people found me. I knew I was difficult and trying, that people instinctively recoiled from me. Just as some individuals are said to be naturally _charismatic_ , I am naturally _repellant_."

"Sherlock, _what_ —"

"I observed it. That there is something fundamentally unlovable, detestable about me that goes too deep to change. And I knew that I would be doomed to an Other who would dislike me and find that their precious Wanderlust was ruined by me. Therefore, the only useful thing I could do with my Wanderlust would be to gain the data to understand it scientifically, so everyone would stop thinking about it as some... wonderful, life-changing experience, the hand of God leading them to their one true love."

"Jesus, Sherlock. You seriously feel that worthless?"

"Feel, no. I have observed it, using logic. I know it to be fact." Sherlock stared into the fire. "My chosen profession is too dangerous and doesn't provide a steady enough income to make me a good provider for a family. I can't maintain the illusion of being pleasant or charming for more than a few days. I can't even offer my body and the prospect of satisfying sex. Well, I could, but I simply don't want to."

John sighed. He was still frustrated with Sherlock, and wanted badly to correct him about his ideas about his self-worth, and certainly had some questions about Sherlock's sexuality — but he was overwhelmed by a rush of sympathy and understanding for Sherlock, this deeply-wounded man, who tried so hard to make sense of a world that he thought despised him, and had come to the conclusion at such a young age that he himself was at fault. 

"I have nothing to offer my Other," Sherlock concluded. Then with a hint of a grin added, "Unless perhaps they have a backlog of murders that need solving."

John snorted at that. He couldn't help himself. Sherlock chuckled once or twice. Laughing together. That felt right.

John slid back from the hearth, so that he was sitting on the floor against the base of the sofa, his shoulder touching Sherlock's knee. "You were convinced that you would get here and be rejected, and you couldn't stand that the system was going to fail you, so you thought —"

"And yet, surprisingly, the Wanderlust process hasn't failed me, John." Sherlock stared at the fire. "It has, in fact, worked for me. Wonderfully."

John felt a rush of hope. Was Sherlock finally going to admit that maybe meeting John here was important to him? That it was what he wanted and needed?

"You see," Sherlock began slowly, "you asked me before whom I'd hoped to find here. What kind of person, when I was a child and thought naively about my future and my Wanderlust. While the other children babbled on about their boring _beautiful and nice_ Others, I knew that what I wanted was different. Someone I would find exciting. Someone I would find _fascinating_. Someone who could _accept me as I am_. But as I got older, I no longer believed that person could possibly exist. But — don't you see, John? I was wrong. When you opened that door yesterday — _I got my impossible wish._ "

John sucked in a breath. A dark, heavy sensation that had been pressing down on him released him.

" _I_ got _my_ impossible wish," Sherlock repeated carefully. "While you _didn't_. You didn't get what you wanted or needed at all. You got stuck with me — chained to me, if we believe that the mystical Wanderlust determines our one and true _soulmate_. I thought about it all night, John. I must unravel the Wanderlust process now, so you can be free from... from the fantasy, the disappointment, the judgement of others." He looked into John's eyes. "You understand, this is a mystery. This is a _case_ — and I have to solve it on your behalf."


	3. Chapter 3

John busied himself in the small kitchen, mulling things over, while Sherlock set up a crude chemistry lab (he'd packed his bag with test tubes and beakers and chemicals the way most people packed bottles of shampoo and conditioner).

John wished that Sherlock could just be normal and reasonable, and that they could just enjoy their Wanderlust and deepen their relationship without it being complicated — but he was annoyed with himself for wishing it because it meant, in some way, that he didn't want to deal with Sherlock's feelings and problems realistically, and that on some level he wanted Sherlock to change.

John had never before wanted to change Sherlock, he had always accepted Sherlock as he was, not like some other people who saw him as an unacceptably flawed person. But this was different — this was Sherlock seeing _himself_ as irreparably defective, and that wasn't acceptable.

John knew, though, that deeply internalized beliefs, especially those learned in childhood, went deep and their roots were dug in. John had served in Afghanistan with a soldier who confided in him one night that he knew racism was wrong and would never consciously act on it, but that after being raised with it he'd never been able to purge the thoughts from his own mind.

Some beliefs were hard to change, even in the face of logic and reason, and Sherlock didn't even _want_ to change them. Nothing John said or did right now could change Sherlock's mind, absolutely nothing. He'd been down that road with Harry, but she was so set in her ways of thinking about herself, it was as if John's words to the contrary were threats — each a missile that, if it hit the right target, would destroy her life, so she picked fights about other topics or hung up the phone on him, until the rift between them got wide enough to keep her safe. John couldn't go through that with Sherlock, but how could he let Sherlock go on believing himself to be worthless? What he needed was to outwit Sherlock, to get him to see his own worth on his own terms.

*

Sherlock had gone outside to investigate their surroundings a while ago. When John thought he knew what to say, he followed him, a little worried that straying too far from the Cabin would trigger the Return and he'd find himself back on London's streets. But Sherlock's footprints in the snow just rounded the corner of the Cabin and stopped. He was kneeling there, picking off splinters of wood from the Cabin wall with a pocket knife and dropping them into a plastic baggie, a notebook lying open on the ground next to him. He'd had the foresight to bring a notebook to record his data in (as technology didn't work here) and a pencil (because pen might smudge if the pages got damp from the snow) and had attached the pencil to the notebook with a length of string so he wouldn't lose it, but hadn't remembered to put on his hat before going outside. His face was blotchy with the cold.

"Sherlock," John said.

"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't look up from what he was doing. John sensed his reluctance to speak as a physical pressure in his own throat.

"Can I have your attention for a few minutes?" John asked.

With an annoyed huff, Sherlock sealed the bag and tucked it into a zippered pocket. He was probably expecting a lecture, which was why John wasn't going to give him one.

When Sherlock didn't stand up, John knelt down, his knees popping. "You said you were working on this case for me, right?"

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock still didn't meet John's eyes. "I intend to learn how the Wanderlust process works in order to understand why the two of us have been paired up."

"Because you think that I've been wronged by it. That my future is now ruined because you're my Other, and I won't be happy with you?"

"Yes."

John shook his head. "Well, if it's _my_ case, then that makes me your client and I'm going to tell you what I'll accept as a resolution of my case. You'll need to prove to me — _scientifically_ , with actual _data_ — that I can't be happy or have a good future with you."

"You're complicating the issue. And I don't let clients dictate how I go about solving their cases."

Well that was certainly true. John thought of all the times a client had come to Sherlock with one problem, only to have Sherlock ignore it and instead snoop into some other, more interesting aspect of their lives. _You think your wife is cheating? Well I took the liberty of breaking into your workplace, and here is a list of the untoward things happening there..._

Sherlock continued, "Also, I have no obligation to provide the client with evidence — only with a solution. I even make Lestrade fetch his own evidence."

"Maybe so, but you love facts and data and evidence — just look at this!" John gestured at the notebook, which Sherlock had already filled with notes. "You wouldn't try to solve a case without them."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off. "Ok — maybe you would. You probably could, in some cases. But you're coming into this case with a bias and outdated beliefs and that doesn't make for good science and you know it. You wouldn't let any other investigator get away with that for a second. And anyway... I'm going to be a tough client and demand proof."

"John —"

"No. You're going to have to convince me. And look, if this is such a simple conclusion, like you say, then getting the evidence to prove it should be easy. I don't even need it right away — I know you're busy investigating the Cabin right now, and this can wait until after we get back to London — you can take your time, work on it between cases. We live in the _same flat_. Certainly if my life is now ruined, you'll be in a position to get some evidence of it, won't you?"

"You're making this needlessly complicated, John." Sherlock sighed. "If I agree to do it your way, will you let me get back to what I'm doing here?"

John brushed the snow out of Sherlock's hair. "Yes, but I'm not leaving you here. Someone has to make sure you wear a hat when you go outside, you idiot."

*

They remained at the Cabin for several days. John continued to sleep on the floor, leaving the bed for Sherlock, who flopped on it sometimes to think but never slept. Sherlock spent hours working at his chemistry set, doing analyses of the samples he'd collected. They didn't talk much, but Sherlock allowed John to assist him where he could. When there was nothing for John to do, he prepared food and tidied the Cabin and fanned away the fumes from Sherlock's experiments and stared at Sherlock's back, wondering how to get Sherlock to stop thinking of himself as too worthless for a relationship.

The urge to Return came on far more gradually than the Wanderlust had. At first, it felt to John like he'd forgotten to do something, like going to bed without brushing his teeth. He realized he felt a pull to go outside and just _walk_. To leave the Cabin and end the Wanderlust, one only had to walk in any direction and they'd find themselves back home. Sherlock wasn't ready to go, though, so John would just ignore the feeling.

There were traditions and superstitions associated with the Return, omens of how the relationship would turn out. Cabinmates leaving at different times or walking in different directions meant they were doomed to break up. Looking back and seeing that one or both sets of footprints had vanished was a sign of trouble as well. Couples generally walked holding hands, and it was said that if they were strongly bonded they would return to the real world without being separated, still holding hands. That was rare, but coveted as a sign of a long, happy relationship. Most of the time, people returned to their own homes alone, having made arrangements to rendezvous with their Other at an arranged time and place, but there was an old tradition of Cabinmates binding their wrists with red ribbon in an attempt to avoid being separated. Literature was full of lost Others, poetic descriptions of severed red ribbons lying in the snow, and foolish Cabinmates who were so caught up in the moment, they forgot to make plans to meet after their Wanderlust or even exchange their full names. 

In John's pack was a traditional card with a red ribbon motif that had John's name and contact information on it, intended to be given to his Other. As was the custom, his mother had given it to him when he was sixteen. He realized, with conflicted emotions, that he would never give it to anyone. There was no need to.

*

They went outside during the day to record weather patterns and to chart the angle and position of the sun. One night, they nearly froze, sitting outside with torches, comparing some complicated star charts with the night sky. Sherlock swung between excitement and frustrated fury as the stars wandered in their positions, sometimes seeming to match parts of the chart and other times not matching it at all. That was a documented phenomenon, noticed by stargazers during their Wanderlusts for centuries. Distortions in the atmosphere was the most accepted explanation, but his inability to make sense or see logic in it put Sherlock into a black mood. He went back inside, leaving John to gather up his things and bring them in.

John found Sherlock's anorak on the floor and Sherlock face down on the bed. John pulled the quilt over him, resting his hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay there and get some sleep.

"It's not going well," Sherlock muttered. "I can't make sense of any of it. I don't know where we are. If I did, I could come back and investigate the whole area, I could find whatever force is _driving_ all of this. But I can't even state for sure that we're still on Earth, although the alternatives are ludicrous. I don't know if I can salvage it, John. What's the point of me even having a Wanderlust?"

John thought a moment before answering, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're having a Wanderlust for the same reason everyone does. For the same reason I am."

Sherlock made a dismissive sound. "You understand that someone like you probably has dozens — if not hundreds — of potential Others, with varying degrees of compatibility. While I only have one — you. One person in the world who will tolerate me. So the system put us together because _you_ were _my_ only option. If not for me, you would be here with someone better suited to you."

"You don't know that. No one knows how Cabinmates are chosen."

"That's why I have to find out." Sherlock curled in on himself.

"I know you think you're different or damaged enough that this isn't something for you, but I don't believe that," John said, putting voice to things he'd been thinking over at length. "It's like my leg, when we met. My mind had convinced me that something was wrong with it. And I believed it. I felt the pain and the muscle weakness — that seemed like proof. From my point of view, it was true. But it wasn't true, not really. _You knew that_. From an outside perspective, you were able to see things that I couldn't see." John wished he could see Sherlock's face, but it was against the pillow. Maybe that made saying all of this easier. "So believe me when I tell you, Sherlock, that your low opinion of yourself is just like my leg. You think you have proof of it being true. You're sure you can prove it. You _feel_ it. But you're human, and sometimes our minds — even _yours_ — get mixed up. You helped me see that I was wrong — so please let me return the favor."

Sherlock didn't answer for a long time. "The evidence you spoke of, that you're demanding for your case. What are you thinking of?" Sherlock asked, muffled by the pillow.

John had hoped for a more direct reply to what he'd said, but was glad Sherlock was talking to him. "Monitor me, heart rate, temperature, pupil dilation, body language, whatever you want, whatever will be a sign of how I feel about you."

"How often, and for how long?"

"Hmm... every day. For a year."

Sherlock made a sound of annoyance, but uncurled his body and turned his face toward John. "Tiresome. One hundred points of data would be sufficient. Three hundred and sixty-five is overkill. But I'll do it, if you truly insist on wasting a year on this. I'll need a baseline for comparison, when you're in a neutral state, as well as data from you when you're dealing with someone you hate."

John smirked. "So lock me in a room with Anderson."

"I can arrange for a lift to stall between floors for a few hours with you and Anderson inside, and monitor how well you warm up to him. Ah, the great sacrifices we must make at the altar of science," Sherlock said, deadpan.

John knew he was taking the mickey. "As long as I don't have to kiss him."

"Hmm. Actually, kissing would be ideal. It is more difficult to disguise revulsion while kissing —"

"I'm _not kissing him_ , Sherlock!"

"I wasn't asking you to. That's not a sacrifice for science, that's torture," Sherlock said, and caught John's eye. They both laughed, the serious mood wonderfully lightened.

After a moment, Sherlock calmly said, "I meant kissing _me_ , while I monitor your physical responses, as part of the daily data recording."

John stared at him. "Is this... are you serious?"

Sherlock's face became blank. "Yes I am in fact, but if the concept is so unpalatable to you, then a year of data collection to determine if we're compatible probably isn't necessary —"

"No. No!" John held up his hands. "I want to do it, as long as you do."

"I reserve the right to skip days when I am busy with a case."

"As long as it's only occasionally." John paused, thinking it all over. Would this just be an experiment? That's what he'd asked for, trying to appeal to Sherlock's logical side. He hoped that in time it would grow into more of an intimate connection — that's what he wanted. "There's one more thing. Just one more. Every time I kiss you, every day for the next year, will you think about what I said about my leg? If I tell you, in those moments, how deserving you are and how lucky I am to have you... will you allow yourself a moment to believe it?"

Sherlock looked across the room, moodily. "I won't be brainwashed. I can't be groomed into some approximation of a perfect partner, not even for you, John."

"No! And that's not what I want. It's not about change, or who's right or wrong. I — I want you to be happier. I want us to be happy together."

Sherlock shifted his position until he could reach up and tug John down onto the bed. "Stop sleeping on the floor. It's ridiculous."

"I'm still wearing my anorak!" John complained, but settled next to Sherlock on top of the covers anyway.

Sherlock closed his eyes, seeming to signal the end of the conversation, and John just watched him breathe for long minutes. Lack of sleep had caught up to both of them. He was thinking about getting up and taking off his coat and shoes and whether he could slide under the covers without waking Sherlock, when Sherlock spoke.

"I'll try. For one year."

*

They slept for the rest of the night, but dawn wasn't far off. When John woke up he realized that the urge to Return had gotten stronger. He felt an itch to move. _Move_. Like he was the only one standing still in the middle of a busy walkway.

That day, they set out to test the perimeter around the Cabin, exploring and seeing how far they could go before they triggered the transition from snowy forest to the streets of London. At John's insistence they had their packs with them in case they couldn't get back to the Cabin. They only saw snow and trees, but Sherlock scribbled notes in his notebook all day. John felt like he was walking the edge of a cliff, with any wrong step about to plunge him over the edge. He kept going for Sherlock's sake, through the vertigo and discomfort, but when he noticed Sherlock rubbing his eyes and stumbling he put a stop to things and brought them back to the Cabin — although the pull was in the other direction.

John made tea quickly, knowing Sherlock had been strongly affected by the feeling as well — he hadn't objected once to giving up on that day's experiment. They were both clammy and sweating under their heavy winter clothes, and panting even after several minutes of rest.

"This is the Return, isn't it?" John asked, after taking Sherlock's pulse and checking them both for fever.

Sherlock nodded, miserably.

"I didn't want to say anything and make you feel like you had to cut things short here, but I've been feeling it for a few days," John admitted. "It's worse today, though."

"Even if we resist it, eventually we'll go, whether we consciously decide to or not, in a state similar to sleepwalking. Even restraints are unable to stop it. It's been documented."

"What do you want to do?" John asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in the steam from his tea deeply. "Let me wrap up a few things. Then we'll go, together."

John nodded, relieved at the thought of going back to the borders of that snowy landscape.

To jump off that cliff together would be such euphoria.

*

They walked together. Each step eased the discomfort, and John began to enjoy the clear air and snow and the sound of Sherlock breathing beside him. His very blood seemed to sing with joy because of the man next to him and the life they were going back to together, in spite of the work they still needed to do on their relationship. He caught Sherlock's gloved hand and held it tight — and Sherlock grasped his eagerly, if awkwardly.

Again, like during the initial Wanderlust, John felt that a greater force was working on him, but he couldn't tell if it was outside or _deeply inside_ himself, or both.

John remembered to look over his shoulder and saw two straight, clear lines of footprints behind them. When he turned back he saw Speedy's awning. Seamlessly, like the transition between dreams, they were back on Baker Street. They stopped at their own familiar front door.

Their hands were still clasped. John raised them.

"Well of course. We live together," Sherlock said dismissively, but unable to hide the flash of wonder in his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Still holding hands, John and Sherlock simply stood in front of 221B. Cars passed by and pedestrians went around them, as if they were in their own pocket of private space. No doubt they looked out of place in their anoraks with snow still clinging to their shoulders. If anyone recognized the Hat Detective and his live-in assistant and snapped a photo, they'd find their Wanderlust status on the front pages of the less reputable papers tomorrow, but John couldn't care, couldn't move, couldn't let Sherlock's hand go.

_Ping!_

Both of their phones chimed simultaneously. The spell was broken as effectively as an alarm clock ending a dream, and Sherlock dropped John's hand to fish out his mobile from under layers of winter clothes. Now that they were back, they were receiving days' worth of messages. Sighing, John ignored his own phone and got his key out instead.

Barely through the door, they were ambushed by Mrs. Hudson, who flung herself at them with a high-pitched squeal, nearly jarring the mobile out of Sherlock's fingers. On tip-toes, she put an arm around each of their necks, tugging them in as she tried to kiss both their cheeks at once. "I knew it! Oh, I knew it!"

"Mrs. Hudson..." John began, but didn't know how to finish.

"Oh! Sherlock! You didn't even tell me it was your Wanderlust! You just took off!" She released them to cup Sherlock's face with her hands. "I'd have guessed John was your Cabinmate right then — what with John having just left for his Wanderlust — if only you'd told me!" She stepped back, with shining eyes and a wide smile, to look at both of them. "Oh — you've had clients coming by all week and I lied and said you were working on some hush-hush case overseas because I didn't know what else to say. I was worried about you, young man! You weren't answering your mobile and for all I knew you could have been dead in a ditch! And all along you were off having a lovely time in your Cabin. with John! Of all people! For _five days_! Goodness — if that isn't a record!" she said in a knowing, teasing way.

"It's — it wasn't like that," John said.

"Oh really," Mrs. Hudson said, with a tone that urged him to confide in her. "What _was_ it like, then?"

"We didn't have sex. I'm asexual," Sherlock said, flatly. "My only interest in sex is when it factors into an alibi or motive." Sherlock turned his attention back to his phone and jogged up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson, hands over her mouth, looked at John. The door to flat B banged shut above them.

John sighed and turned away from Mrs. Hudson, busying himself with taking off his anorak.

"Now dear," Mrs. Hudson said, soothingly. "Sherlock is _Sherlock_. You know how hard it can be for him to adjust to new situations. You two will work things out. What you need to do is help him relax. Have some wine and a nice dinner, put the lights low and take it slow — _sensual_ — let him tell you what feels good —"

"I _know_ how to —" John blurted out, angry at the implication that he had failed to put Sherlock at ease. Mrs. Hudson recoiled, and John felt like a heel for exploding at her. Still — as if he needed advice on sex! "It's just — it's _not that_. I think he's serious about this. He's — it's complicated and I can't — I'm not sure what needs fixing and what doesn't." John put his hands down. "Neither of us really have our heads 'round this yet, us being Cabinmates. We need some time."

"I understand," she said, but John wondered how she could possibly understand when he himself didn't. "But isn't it wonderful, you two? Even if there are some bumps in the road — and everyone has those. You're _Cabinmates_ " — she patted his hand in time with each syllable — "and you love each other. There's no denying that, is there?"

John looked up the stairs after Sherlock. "No. There's no denying that."

*

Upstairs, John found that Sherlock had already spread out his notes, chemical analysis, and samples on the desk and was engrossed in them. That was a good sign for a relaxing evening — it meant Sherlock was less likely to rush out the door for a new case, hauling John behind him with his pajamas half on or with shampoo still in his hair.

John put the kettle on and stepped into the bathroom for a quick shower. He relaxed under the hot water. The discomforts that prompted the Return had vanished, but so had the altered state, the pure elation. Things felt _normal_ — and that was both a comfort and a disappointment.

John got out of the shower and was surprised to find the flat growing dark. It was evening already. There must be a time difference between London and the Cabin. He'd have to remember to reset his watch, once he unpacked it. He dressed, turned on the lights, and made tea, before plunking an unacknowledged cup down on the desk for Sherlock, and settling down with his own to check all the messages they'd missed.

The amount of email, voicemail, and texts were staggering. There were even some letters. John skimmed over the emails. Most were normal inquiries about hiring Sherlock with descriptions of potential cases, and the annoying "Did you get my message? Because I haven't heard back," follow-ups.

But there were also concerns from John's friends about where he was. He stared blankly at them. What should he tell them about his Wanderlust, about his Cabinmate? Mrs. Hudson was one thing — she knew and _adored_ Sherlock. But John's friends and family? At best, they tolerated Sherlock, called him eccentric, and thought he was part of some post-war phase John was going through. At worst, they said he was enabling and encouraging risky behavior in John that would eventually kill him or put him in prison. So how could John tell them? He put his fingers properly on the home keys, but no words came to him, and so he gave up and started on the work-related emails.

The rest of their evening consisted of take-out and a cozy evening in, with John sleepy and comfortable at his laptop and Sherlock buzzing and swooping around the desk, rain pattering against the windows behind him. John weeded out the emails he knew Sherlock wouldn't be interested in, responding to them with variations of _Mr. Holmes is unable to take your case at this time and advises you to contact the police/consult a lawyer/ask your spouse these questions directly._ The more promising emails — and the _barmiest_ — he saved, knowing that even if Sherlock didn't want to take all of the cases, he would want to read them.

Out of sheer pride John stayed up until 11, although he was sleepy enough to go to bed hours earlier. By then Sherlock had settled down with his own laptop to type up the hand-written notes from his notebook. Looking up to see him there, the light from the lamp bringing out the rich chestnut tones of his hair, John felt a pang of a confusing jumble of emotions. Nostalgia and fondness and familiarity and loss. He turned it over in his mind, questioning it, uncomfortable with it, but couldn't make sense of it.

"Sherlock. I'm going to bed now."

"Hmm. Goodnight."

And so John went upstairs, the feeling still nagging at him. He took extra time cleaning his teeth, combing his hair, putting his things away, and tidying his already-tidy room, trying to put things right — but everything _was_ right, everything was just as it always was. Familiar. Normal. And finally he understood what the problem was. He went back down the stairs in the dark. Light from the sitting room spilled out onto the landing.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

John went to stand at Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, can I...?" John slid his hand from Sherlock's back, up to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck. Slowly, _slowly_ , so he could stop at any sign of objection, John bent down and tilted Sherlock's face up. A kiss on the cheek would be too little, and on the mouth might be too much, so John aimed for somewhere in the middle. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's face. The corners of their lips touched. Sherlock's mouth gave little spasm — of surprise or nervousness, a smile or a flinch. John straightened up but didn't step back, stroking the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck with his thumb.

"John. I wasn't ready — I didn't get any data —" Sherlock groped for John's wrist to take his pulse. His fingers were contradictions on John's skin — familiar yet foreign, living flesh made into instruments of science, warm but smooth and firm like pebbles from a riverbed.

John felt a little giddy, like a teen who had just kissed his crush. "I know. It's just — I mean — I saw us falling back into the old familiar patterns. That's just so we don't get too far back into them. You know? I didn't want us to get so caught up in the normal stuff that we forget."

"I wouldn't have forgotten." Sherlock stared at John.

"I know. It was just... well, you can think of it as practice. Or a... a bit of what's to come. Goodnight, Sherlock." And John turned and went back up to his room, grinning with with his back to Sherlock, a secret smile just for himself.

*

John got up and dressed in the morning and had a few moments of worry when he couldn't find his watch. It wasn't in his pack or in the pockets of his anorak. He _couldn't_ have left it in the Cabin — he'd made sure it was empty before they'd left. Maybe it was in Sherlock's bag. He'd have to be careful how he asked about it though, or Sherlock might make John unpack for him.

John went downstairs and found Sherlock asleep on the sofa in his clothes, his teacup empty and an even larger clutter of things on the desk, all signs of Sherlock working late into the night. _I kissed that man_ , John thought. _I'm going to spend a year kissing him. And the rest of our lives, if I can convince him he's worthy of it.  
_  
He picked up the teacup stepped toward the kitchen, intending to make breakfast, but paused at the sound of voices downstairs. He tried to identify them. When they got closer, accompanied by footsteps on the stairs, he looked around to see Sherlock, blinking blearily and sitting up with a little groan.

"Woo-hoo." Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door and let herself in. "Oh, sorry to wake you, but your brother's here."

John gestured with the hand that held the cup. "Now's not such a good —"

While Sherlock said, "Tell him that I'm not —"

But Mycroft walked boldly into the room and Mrs. Hudson escaped back downstairs. "Hello, brother dear. Hello John. May I offer both of you my congratulations?"

"No, you may not," Sherlock said. "Goodbye. Do _please_ take care to not fall down the stairs as you leave. Who knows if the floorboards could withstand the impact? Wouldn't want you to find yourself plunged into 221 _C_."

Far from leaving, Mycroft ambled across the room to inspect Sherlock's mess on the desk. From the look on Sherlock's face, John wondered if he was fighting a childish impulse to throw himself in front of Mycroft and sweep the lot into the bin, ruining his own work in order to spite his brother's nosiness.

Mycroft looked over Sherlock's desk as if perusing artwork in a particularly boring art gallery. "Did you know the average time spent in the Cabin is two and a half days? You two were there for _five_ days. Clearly, John, you were unable to dissuade him of some of his — _notions_. But were you able to talk sense into him about others?"

Mycroft gave John a curious look, and John felt his face get hot. _Notions?_ Just how much did Mycroft know about Sherlock's beliefs about relationships and sex? Or his negativity about the Wanderlust process?

"Mycroft," Sherlock said sharply. "It's none of your business."

"The effects of the Return must have been dreadful by the end. It must have been terribly distracting. Good lord, Sherlock, is this really necessary?" Mycroft poked at something on the desk. "Just what are you trying to prove? My, we are in for an interesting time, seeing where your relationship is headed now that you've had your Wanderlust."

"So — what's _your_ Wanderlust status, Mycroft?" John asked, realizing that no one had ever mentioned it. It was a rude question and John asked it as such. Generally you didn't ask someone about their Wanderlust, unless you were dating or were close.

"Post-Wanderlust, if you want to know," Mycroft said with a strained smile.

Sherlock let out a little crow of laughter. "True — and yet Mycroft previously _faked_ a Wanderlust when he was twenty-three."

"You _faked_ one?" John asked. "Who even does that?"

Mycroft rubbed his nose and looked away in an uncharacteristic gesture. "I didn't _fake a Wanderlust_. It's not as if it's the dark ages and I led some naive maiden to a shack in the woods. I merely... _fabricated_ a story."

"He _fabricated_ a Cabinmate — a struggling Canadian artist, wasn't she? Then he _fabricated_ a seriously ill brother and two adorable nieces she had to care for. Thus ensuring she had enough obligations to keep her away and was sufficiently unsuitable — at least, in our family's eyes — for pursuing a relationship with — being both foreign and of a lower class. Bravo, brother," Sherlock said. "Of course it created problems when Mycroft had his real Wanderlust a few years later with a properly respectable — if appallingly dull — English stockbroker, and couldn't tell anyone."

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. "Don't forget you owe me for getting our parents off your back as well. You should thank me, Sherlock, for leading them to believe you were on your Wanderlust that long weekend you disappeared from Uni with — what was his name? Vincent?"

"You faked Sherlock's Wanderlust too?" John asked, torn between amusement and discomfort at how easy the brothers found deception.

" _Victor_. We _really were_ reviewing for exams." Sherlock crossed his arms. "As I was the cleverest boy in our year and he had the best attendance and note-keeping habits, we were a natural match."

"If you'd actually _attended classes_ that term, you wouldn't have had to —"

Sherlock waved his hand. "It was a weekend at his family's lush country house. They had two french chefs on staff, a butler who dabbled in white collar crime, and the father had a passion for exotic tobacco — one that he was bursting to share with a fellow enthusiast — along with his _ash_. It wasn't a hardship, whatever you might think." Sherlock got up and crossed the room and opening the door wide. "And speaking of hardships, it's time to end this one. Goodbye."

"Well, I shall be fascinated to see the shape your relationship takes from now on. My sincerest congratulations to you," Mycroft said directly to John. John couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or not — Mycroft's tone often walked the line. Was he implying that John was unfortunate to be paired up with Sherlock? Perhaps this was some of what fed into Sherlock's self-esteem issues. Mycroft walked out with his head held high, as if it had been his idea to leave and not Sherlock's.

Sherlock shut the door and leaned against it.

"So, you lied to your parents about your Wanderlust? Back in Uni?" John asked.

"Lied? No. Mycroft lied. I allowed them to make false assumptions, which people insist on doing all the time. They heard what they expected to hear and I did not correct them and that was that." Sherlock waved his hand and plopped back down on the sofa.

"Which is basically lying."

Sherlock opened the laptop. "Yes, alright — perhaps I lied by _omission_."

"Will you do that again now?" John asked. "Not tell them about us? Let them go on thinking that this Victor was your real Cabinmate?"

Sherlock looked up from the screen.

"Only — I don't know what to tell anyone. I don't think I'm ready to tell people. Not that I'm ashamed," John said hastily.

"Nor am I."

"It's just — I want us to be able to figure ourselves out on our own," John said, trying to work out his feelings, aware that Sherlock generally wasn't the best person to do that with.

"I don't care what people think, and I have no reason or desire to lie about our Wanderlust, John," Sherlock said. He looked back at the screen. "But I won't tell anyone we're Cabinmates if you don't want them to know. And don't worry — we could snog in front of half of New Scotland Yard and they wouldn't deduce anything." Sherlock shot him a rare mischievous grin over the laptop, and they both laughed.

John went into the kitchen and started making tea and getting things out to make breakfast, entering a peaceful space of familiar actions that seemed to make the passage of time irrelevant. He started when Sherlock let out an exclamation from the sitting room.

"What?" John asked, surprised to find that Sherlock had brought the laptop from the sofa to his chair, stealthily as a cat, putting the kitchen in his line of sight as he stared at the screen.

"Why didn't you tell me about this case?!" Sherlock slapped the overstuffed arms of his chair.

"Which case?"

"The _brilliant_ case, John!"

"Oh the _brilliant_ case. Of course." John rolled his eyes. "Which one is the brilliant case?"

"The murder with the security camera footage, obviously!"

John remembered the email about it, and to be honest, it had sounded mundane to John, but if Sherlock saw something more in it then John didn't doubt him. At the thought of getting back to solving exciting cases, he felt a flutter of anticipation in his stomach.

Sherlock jumped up out of his chair, putting the laptop aside. "Come on, we've got to go."

"Go? No. No. Just wait —" John gestured with a jar of marmalade. "That email was from days ago and we haven't even contacted them yet. We can't drop in on people unannounced at half seven in the morning. Anyway you're wearing yesterday's clothes and I know for a fact you haven't had a proper shower in a week."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off.

"Look — you just go get ready, and I'll ring them and see if we can meet with them — as soon as possible."

*

Thirty minutes later they had an appointment to visit their client at the scene of the crime and were rushing around to finish getting ready. Sherlock was gulping hot coffee in a way that didn't look comfortable and John was walking through the sitting room, trying to eat his toast and button his shirt at the same time. The butter on his fingers was complicating things.

"I meant to ask — do you have my watch?" John asked around a mouthful of toast.

"Hold out your wrist," Sherlock ordered, producing it from the clutter on his desk.

John held up the hand that was holding the toast, feeling childish as Sherlock buckled the watch onto his wrist.

"Thanks, but why was it —? Did you set it, because it was wr—"

Then with Sherlock's fingers lingering at John's wrist, Sherlock leaned in and kissed John.

It took a moment for John's brain to catch up and comprehend what was happening. It was an awkward kiss — John's elbow was trapped between them and the hand that was holding his half-eaten toast hovered next to their ears — close enough for Sherlock's hair to brush against it. Sherlock's lips against John's were clumsy, experimenting, and they tasted of coffee and lip balm. This close, John could strongly smell the hair products Sherlock had just used. The awkwardness didn't matter, the newness didn't matter — John relaxed and surrendered to Sherlock's lead.

After a moment, Sherlock stepped back and opened his eyes, looking slightly flushed and breathless, shaken in subtle ways that John only noticed because he knew Sherlock so well.

And Sherlock had toast crumbs stuck to his lips.

Sherlock hadn't been eating toast.

"Oh God! Sorry!" John brushed the crumbs away from Sherlock's mouth frantically with his fingers. John's face was hot.

Sherlock raised one hand and brushed the corner of John's lips with his thumb, mirroring the gesture. "It's my fault. I did rather surprise you."

"No, it was — it was good."

"Oh. Good," Sherlock said. "And it worked." He held up his phone, which seemed to be recording sets of data.

"Is that — how did you —?"

Sherlock grasped John's wrist and held it up — toast and all — so John could look closer at the watch. There was a layer of dark leather sewn to the inside of the band that hadn't been there before.

"I built some sensors into the band so I can discretely take readings from you using my mobile. This was a successful test." Looking at his phone, he added. "And as you said last night, we want to avoid falling back into old patterns. That was successful as well. Also, I set your watch to the correct time for you. Which, if you will observe it, will tell you it's time for us to go meet our client."

Sherlock turned away and put on his coat, scarf, and gloves. John watched him, momentarily dazed. He wanted to say something — he was supposed to say something —

"Well, come on, John! Murder. _Murder_!"

And John was rushing after him out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

And so, life returned to normal — for the most part — at 221B Baker Street, as Sherlock and John began their year of data-collection.

They had after-case kisses, moping-in-the-flat kisses, and what-the-hell-is-keeping-Lestrade kisses. They kissed in the morgue while waiting for Molly to bring the bodies out. They snuck kisses in taxi cabs. And at the end of one very odd day, they kissed using tips from someone they'd questioned about an exotic pets smuggling ring (Sherlock had deftly steered the conversation all the way from one topic to the other, after deducing that she was quite an experienced kisser and rather proud of it as well).

They kissed when John was just out of the shower and still dripping wet, when he was drowsing in front of the telly, and even when he was coming in the door nearly dropping sacks of groceries. Sherlock became a virtual kissing _ninja_ , perfecting the art of the sneak-attack kiss, because he claimed that he needed to gather data from John's reaction to sudden and unexpected kisses. It reminded John of his childhood cat, who would lurk behind furniture or around corners waiting to pounce playfully on John's feet. Only what Sherlock did when he caught John was preferable to cat scratches. Sherlock wasn't the only one who could initiate things, though, and John often gave as good as he got, paying Sherlock back by catching him unawares or in awkward situations.

John was relieved that even though the kisses were required by their agreement, they rarely felt forced or awkward. After the first few times, it all started to come naturally. Sometimes there were even unexpected bonus kisses and Sherlock _usually_ didn't complain that they were unnecessary. He recorded the data through the sensors in John's watch band, but hadn't commented on his findings yet. That was fine with John, though. The data — the proof — was for Sherlock, not for him. They'd discuss it at the end of the year. Still, they never kissed in front of people, and they hadn't let anyone know — other than Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft — that they were Cabinmates.

For John, with the kisses came desire —having Sherlock's body pressed against him, Sherlock's scent in his nose, listening to the involuntary sounds Sherlock made. Sherlock could hardly fail to notice when John was aroused, but he never said anything about it. John dealt with the feelings on his own, still unsure about how that aspect of their relationship was going to work in the long run.

Ever since Sherlock said he didn't like sex (a foreign concept to John), part of John had wanted to urge him to _just try it_. In his younger days he probably would have said it. But life experience had taught him when to hold his tongue and not to offer a simple suggestion to a situation that he didn't fully understand. He'd heard enough of that kind of thing from well-meaning people after returning from war. Too many people had told him what "just" needed to do to adjust to civilian life and deal with his depression and anxiety. John had felt firsthand how hurtful it could be, hearing those things.

And yet... if Sherlock ever _did_ want to try it, John would be there. He'd give Sherlock the best experience possible.

One comfortable evening in the flat, after their data-collection was completed, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his laptop. John decided to start the conversation gently, one step at a time, and see where it went. He stood behind his own chair, hands tapping it nervously.

"Sherlock, what do you think about, uh, other forms of contact. Other than kissing, I mean?"

Sherlock didn't look up from the screen. "Such as?"

"Well..." John thought about what he had done with people he'd dated in the past. Other than sex. "Sitting together on the sofa cud —" he cut himself off. Sherlock wouldn't respond well to the word _cuddling_. "Er, sitting really close together. Arms around each other... watching a film or something, or just... relaxing? Taking a nap? Together?"

"Oh. With whom?" Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes. He couldn't help it. He wondered if Sherlock were intentionally misinterpreting what John was saying. "Me. You and I."

"Oh. Sounds time-consuming," Sherlock said.

"Fine," John said, unsure if he was more annoyed with Sherlock or with himself for thinking that Sherlock might be receptive to the idea.

"But, sometimes..." Sherlock looked up finally, his face lit from below by the glow of the computer screen. "Sometimes I sit on the sofa. You could sit there too. If I were sitting and thinking, as I often do, it wouldn't disturb me much if you sat down, perhaps even close enough to be in contact."

John relaxed. It was a start. "Alright."

Sherlock shrugged. "As for sleeping, I do that occasionally as well."

"I know. You have a bed in your room and everything," John said with a smile, unable to resist teasing Sherlock.

"Yes. And enough room for two to sleep in it." Sherlock turned his attention back to the laptop. "You're welcome to it if you wish. Just don't expect me to spend more time in it than necessary."

*

And then there was the other part of their one-year agreement — convincing Sherlock that he was worthy of a relationship. On _good_ days, Sherlock listened — or at least focused his attention on John. Sometimes, he even tried to answer John's gentle prompts and questions regarding his attitude toward relationships. On many days, Sherlock brushed it all off and changed the subject, and John usually let him because — as he knew too well — it was hard work changing your thinking and trying to face your problems everyday, especially when you were also spending most of your waking hours catching murderers.

But on bad days — and when they were bad, they were _really_ bad — John's reminders of Sherlock's worthiness as a human being seemed to hit a nerve in a way that even the worst insult _couldn't_. Sherlock would go to a dark, angry place and shut John out entirely, either snapping at him or ignoring him (John had never met anyone who could ignore people as _aggressively_ as Mr. Sherlock Holmes), stomping around crime scenes, shooting down John's suggestions in front of the Met, and slamming doors behind himself — usually right in John's face. They were trying days for John, but he hoped that there was something positive about them, that they represented some kind of progress for Sherlock. It seemed like the kind of thing Ella used to encourage in John — because Sherlock's moods were in response to him being challenged to change his unhealthy thinking, and that meant that on some level Sherlock was working through the dysfunction.

*

Work hit a dry spell, so Sherlock threw himself into solving cold cases. They never provided the urgency and thrill of chasing after an active criminal, but working on them helped Sherlock manage his mood and avoid falling into his usual downtime depression.

They were having a lot of success with one murder case in particular. They visited the long-cold crime scene in the park one afternoon, where Sherlock theorized that the culprit must have used a series of old decorative pillars and walls to hide behind while stalking the victim. Together, John and Sherlock play-acted multiple scenarios involving one of them hiding in different places while the other walked by, then jumping out and acting out a chase to the exact location where the murder had been committed. They thoroughly tested different routes and from what angles they could or couldn't see each other. Although John missed the good old days when his body handled crouching and running a bit better, it felt great. Exhilarating. He didn't even mind the odd looks they occasionally got from passerbys. They were in their element — tearing around the park playing murder like overgrown schoolboys.

Somehow, John wound up throwing a battered old frisbee for a dog named Loopy while Sherlock questioned his owner — an elderly woman who boasted having come to that park _every single day for more years than you've had hot dinners, thank you very much_ — who remembered what the park had been like around the time the murder was committed. She was informative and feisty. John found that he was immensely enjoying himself, rubbing the dog's ears and watching Sherlock's expression, as she gave him a stern talking-to about manners after he'd rattled off some deductions about her ( _involved with the widower at the shoe repair shop, regularly shoplifted jars of spice — and only jars of spice — from the supermarket, had intentionally perfected the art of guilting her children into visiting her_ ).

Loopy stopped panting and looked at John, apparently anxious over his owner's tone of voice.

"Yes, I know. They embarrass us in public, but we still love them anyway, don't we, Loopy?" John asked, soothingly.

Her information led them to a lovely casual bistro around the corner. John ate a leisurely dinner while Sherlock had their waiter bring out one of the chefs — an older gentleman who had worked there at the time of the murder — to talk to them, as Sherlock worked through details and came up with new questions. It ended with Sherlock deducing that the original sketches of the layout of the crime scene made by the police had been wrong, due to a few confusingly similar landmarks, and (of course) their own sheer stupidity. That revelation shook loose a series of new ideas, and Sherlock and John worked out the chain of events in the park like dominoes falling. All the evidence and eyewitness reports in the file made sense now, except the testimony of the newspaper delivery boy — which made him the most likely culprit.

It had been a perfect date.

Back home, they wound up on the sofa together, accidentally crumpling some of the old photos and case files beneath them. It started as a kiss, just a normal kiss for the data-collection, but it grew. Sherlock was pulling at John, like he just couldn't get him close enough. He wound up on his back with John on top of him, kissing hungrily. With anyone else, John would think this was leading to something. But this was Sherlock, so he wasn't sure.

John's enjoyment became arousal. As he waited for a sign from Sherlock about how to proceed, it gradually crossed over into discomfort.

Finally, Sherlock let go of him and turned his head. "John." Sherlock put up a hand to block John as he moved in to kiss Sherlock's neck. "John. Go take care of that."

John didn't have to ask what Sherlock meant. Embarrassed, he got up and went to the bathroom.

After he was done, John washed up, then pressed his cold, wet hands to his face. John's idea of a perfect evening with the person he loved generally _didn't_ end with a quick, solitary wank. But no, he told himself. That didn't matter. Maybe this was it, maybe this was how their relationship was going to work. This was the new normal. And the evening wasn't over — he could still go back out and pick up where they'd left off on the couch.

When he came back out, Sherlock was looking at the crime scene photos again, his lips red and swollen, and his hair mussed, but lost hopelessly in the labyrinth of the next cold case. John's window of opportunity had closed. John stopped in his tracks, hesitated, and left Sherlock to it. He sat down in his chair and picked up that morning's paper. He'd read it already, but he looked through it again.

Sherlock stood up, some time later. As if giving a speech, he straightened up to his full height and said, "I meant what I told you John — I want you to date other people. I can't give you what you need. I have no interest in being involved with your bodily functions, nor would I inflict mine on you. I find the concept unpleasant. So date. Have sex with whomever you like — as long as it isn't me." Then he left the room before John could respond.

John sighed and sat with his face in his hands for what felt like a long time. It felt like if he just stayed like that, if he just didn't move, maybe everything would just be ok.

Eventually he had to move. He got up and busied himself straightening up the kitchen. Sherlock didn't come back.

*

John opened the door to the attic crawl space. He'd peeked in here once just out of curiosity shortly after moving in, and had nearly forgotten about it. It was little bigger than a cupboard door — John had to bend down to look in. Down at the far end, he could see a rectangle of light — a phone screen with a thumb idly scrolling it — throwing a bit of light onto Sherlock's face, putting his cheekbone and curls into highlight. This wasn't Sherlock's normal case-pondering. This was him mulling over feelings he didn't know how to deal with. The smell of cigarettes was stronger than the musty, damp smell he remembered from before. John crawled in, leaving the door open for ventilation.

"You've found me," Sherlock said without even looking up.

"I know a thing or two about deduction. Believe it or not, I've studied the techniques of one of the greatest detectives in the world," John said, making his way over to Sherlock carefully and sitting on a dusty rafter next to him. "And smoke's coming out the vents downstairs," John added lightly.

Sherlock blew out a lungful of smoke. "If you're here to chide me for smoking, let me remind you that relapse is part of recovery. I'll be ready to quit again in a day or two."

John didn't like it when Sherlock smoked, but right now he didn't really care. It wasn't the time to worry about that. They had other things to talk about. Before he could think of how to bring them up, Sherlock spoke.

"Sometimes it's like being the only sober man in a room of drunks," Sherlock said slowly, putting his phone away, leaving them in near-darkness, "being around all of you and your sex drives."

"Are we really so crazy?" John asked with a sigh. "Maybe we are."

"Worse is that everyone assumes it's _shared_ insanity, that _everyone_ feels it." Sherlock stubbed the cigarette out. "In my adolescence my family assumed that the lack of girlfriends meant I was gay and closeted. They dropped hints and prompted me to just come out, although I knew they were disappointed that I wasn't straight. But they'd have been even more disappointed to learn I was asexual — not that I knew about asexuality in humans yet."

"That's how you identify, then? Asexual?" John asked. "I've really only started hearing about it as an accepted orientation in the last few years... and still it's not well-known."

"Exactly." Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh. "How could I explain that my sexual orientation was neither male nor female nor both, but _none_. I hadn't even heard of such a thing existing. Everything I was hearing was that continuing virginity only meant one was entirely undesirable or rigidly religious. I was neither and had no explanation for why I am the way I am. At any rate, I knew they wouldn't understand. But worse, they'd set so much stock on my Wanderlust, and I didn't know — how could someone who didn't feel sexual attraction have a Wanderlust?"

"But you did have one," John reminded Sherlock, gently. He found Sherlock's hand in the dark and held it.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "The term _Wanderlust_ itself refers to the desire to travel, but the double entendre is built right in — the idea of going to one's Cabin to have sex. The lust for that person, the lust for sex. Think about it — the very word _lust_ has taken on the meaning almost exclusively as a lust for sex, as if it is the strongest and most overriding desire in life. That is what is normal, and that was what they expected of me. That's why they accepted Mycroft's story about Victor so easily. They were relieved. They'd given up on me being attracted to women by then and were just glad I was attracted to _someone_. A nice educated boy from uni with a rich father. Mycroft saw their concern and gave them a story they wanted to hear — and let me run with it and use it. All I had to do then was convince them that Victor and I had fallen out and my heart was broken. My celibacy from that point on could be attributed to pining for my lost true love — because that trite romantic tragedy was something they could understand. That a son pining endlessly for a lost Cabinmate and never moving on with his life was more palatable than an asexual son should say something to you about their mindset and the environment I grew up in."

John took a moment to digest all of what Sherlock had said. "I'm sorry about all of that, Sherlock, really I am. But you're away from it now. Your parents aren't here and they don't even know you've had a Wanderlust — a real one, I mean."

"But, you see John — while I may have had a Wanderlust, the system isn't meant for asexuals. Trying to have the type of relationship that Cabinmates often share afterwards is... problematic. And it certainly isn't kind to pair up an asexual with someone with a robust sexual desire. Don't you see how incompatible we are now, John?"

"No," John said stubbornly, although logically he knew it was becoming an issue.

Sherlock scoffed. "You want to pursue our relationship? I suppose I could... give the occasional hand job so you're not uncomfortable."

"Do you want to?" John asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," Sherlock replied, without hesitation.

"Then I wouldn't want you to."

"But we get physically close, John. We kiss and our bodies are in close proximity and what I enjoy becomes a situation that causes discomfort for you. How can you not want for me to do something about it —"

"Because. I care about you. I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do. It's your body and your decision entirely," John said, then thinking a moment added, "But that goes for me, as well. It's my body and my choice, if I want to go through a bit of sexual frustration to have a snog with you, that's my choice."

Sherlock made a sound of contemplative agreement but didn't say anything. They sat in the dark and the silence.

"I'll date other people," John said. "I'll try it and we'll see how it goes. But I'm not giving up on you and our relationship, not one bit. Or kissing you, or cuddl — sitting on the sofa with you."

"Cuddling?"

"I didn't say that."

" _Cuddling_." Sherlock said again, scornfully. but John could hear the smile in his voice.


End file.
